


Linguistics

by PurpleMoon3



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Luke's Cocoa Addiction, M/M, Two Guys and a Baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29870283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: Luke and Din have a chat over feelings and cocoa.
Kudos: 19





	Linguistics

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was supposed to be step one toward some Luke/Din smut (and also a Stargate crossover) but by the time I managed to crank it out my hormones leveled out for the month. If I ever managed to circle back around to it I will up the rating and adjust tags as necessary.
> 
> Also, my personal head canon is that Luke's school is basically treated as Free Boarding School by all the parents that send their kids there. Like, yeah, you don't get a certificate or anything when you graduate but Outer Rim doesn't care about paper trails so much as practical applications. There may be some parents serving as staff, too, because the Force isn't going to help you pass the History portion of your galactic GED.

It's quiet at the Temple; just him and his son and the Jedi. Without Grogu's playmates -his fellow _padawans-_ for distraction Grogu lounged in his arms while trying to stay awake. Din gently lifted what looked like half a hydrospanner out of his son's slack mouth. “Nuhoy, ad. I will be here when you wake.” 

His child cooed, the sound almost but not quite recognizable mando'a, as tiny claws reached sluggishly for the reclaimed tool. Dark eyes blinked before a final yawn became to soft snores. Din stroked a finger along along Grogu's soft cheek, rising to tuck him into bed. It was yet early, or late depending on your point of view, on Yavin IV but the kid needed a nap after the night they'd spent catching up.

Din watched his son sleep, the little chest rising and falling, peaceful, and pressed his lips together to hold back the sob. He wasn't sad. He had no reason to be sad. He had completed his quest. Against everything he had come to expect he even got to keep his foundling. Despitebecauseof their attachment. He can still hear the whispered confession in the Imperial hanger bay as the Jedi handed him the data chip with the Temple's coordinates.

_I was trained by a Jedi of the Old Order, yes, and my Knight Trial was laid before me by Grandmaster Yoda himself. To **confront** my father. Lord Vader. I thought, at first, that I had been meant to fight him. To kill him. But that... that isn't the Jedi way. He was my **Father.**_

_The New Republic says I killed the Emperor. That's not really true. He wanted us to fight, my Father and I, and when I refused he ordered Vader to kill me. Despite everything he had done, there was good in him, and he loved me. He killed his own Master not out of greed, or ambition, but to **protect** me. He died a **Skywalker.**_

He'd numbly accepted the chip, the confession, and only had one answer when the Jedi rocked back on his heels as the open, searching expression closing behind a mask of serenity as blank as his own Beskar. Din didn't understand the particulars, the history and importance of the name, but he understood enough. What else could he have said about a parent defending their child? To loving their child? It did not matter if that child was grown.

_This is The Way._

The Jedi's serenity had cracked with a relieved smile, and in that moment he had looked more like a boy than an ancient enemy. It was that child that jumped into the X-Wing, something that shouldn't have been possible without a ladder or a jetpack while issuing a final  _ order _ to visit. After that, Din could not, not? 

The Temple was populated mostly by children, war-orphans and those sent by their parents for training, with a handful of wary adults where the only difference between student and teacher was the gleaming cylinders at their hips. It was almost like returning to the covert.

But he couldn't go back there. The covert was gone, destroyed, because of him. What if trouble followed him to this Jet'yaim, too? 

“Mando?” The door muffled the question and Grogu did not stir. Din wiped at his eyes before reaching for his helmet and slipping it on. With a steady breath the pain in his chest receded to a dull ache. “May I come in?”

Din crossed to the door and slid the lock back -it wouldn't have stopped the Jedi, but it kept curious children from sneaking unannounced- before slipping into the hall. He shut the door behind him and nearly knocked Grogu's teacher off his feet. “I just put the kid down to sleep.”

“He's had an exciting day.” The Jedi agreed, giving him space with a small, gentle smile. Blue eyes landed on the hydrospanner in his hand, and the smile widened. Din swallowed as petite, calloused hands reached out. “Where did you find it? The senior padawans were looking everywhere for it.”

“The kid, he...”

“Of course.” The Jedi huffed, accepting it and tucking it away in the folds of his clothes. “Well, at least I know it wasn't poor meditation skills that was stymieing them. He shouldn't have been able to get into the mechanic's bay, though*.”

“He does that.”

The Jedi made a noise of agreement and turned, motioning for Din to follow. After sparing a last look at Grogu's (and Din's, when he wanted it to be, the thought clogged his throat) bedroom door he did so. The hall emptied out to a wider chamber: a courtyard that seemed to be in a state eternal repairs. The broken floor tiles had been removed but not replaced. Instead the floor was covered with pourstone squares. Each one was marked by the impression of hands, padawans leaving their marks in the material while it was still malleable.

He could spot Grogu's tiny hands pressed into a panel, too, tree fingers spread with the claws coming out at their tips.

The Jedi stopped, blue eyes unerringly following Din's gaze. “You  _can_ take him, you know.” 

“He's safer here.” Din was thankful his vocorder didn't pick up the sigh. The Jedi's magic seemed to hear it, anyway.

“...you can stay.” He said, soft. He was soft. All soft fabrics and soft looks, hair like morning sunlight curling around his head. Everything Din was not. “Grogu concentrates better when he knows where you are. He's not, not scared precisely, he's a good kid, he thinks the _world_ of you. His unstoppable, shiny _buir.”_

“He says that?” Din nearly choked on the words.

“Well, not in words. He doesn't have all words yet. But we feel it.” The blond head cocked. “You know, I _have_ older students. You've seen them. I may not be able to teach you how to use the Force, but you _do_ carry a lightsaber.”

“Darksaber.” Din corrected, automatically, hand going to the holster he'd made for the weapon tucked beside his blaster. “I... won it. In combat.”

“Moff Gideon?”

Din nodded, fingers tapping along the familiar beskar casing. “It is a Mandalorian laser sword. Not Jedi.”

The shorter man blinked, then gave a short laugh before turning and brushing a curtain aside as he entered the kitchen. There was a pot of banthamilk steaming on a heating plate. Green flecks of some herb or another floated in the blue liquid. The Jedi took the pot off the heat and began mixing in a dark brown powder. The mixture did not thicken as it reconstituted into rations. Instead, the milk darkened until it was the same dark brown of the powder. Oh.

Hot chocolate.

The Jedi's magic opened a cupboard and floated the lid off a container of sweetener to sprinkle some in while he continued stirring the pot by hand. He raised the spoon to his mouth, testing the taste, swaying in place for a moment as a general air of  _lightness_ filled the room. He poured the child's drink into two large mugs. Pressed one into Din's chest until he accepted it.

“Using a,” Luke took a long sip of his drink, eyes sparkling with pleasure. “ _laser sword_ isn't the same as any other blade. Every edge is the cutting one, it's more likely to kill of shock than blood loss and imbalanced _by design.”_

Din stared at the drink he was holding, at the steam wafting up from it. He'd only activated the Darksaber a handful of times for use as a cutting torch rather than a weapon. While he had trained with blades in the Fighting Corps, they hadn't had nearly as much practice as he spent with literally any other weapon and none of daggers, throwing knives, and swords had felt anything like the Darksaber. They hadn't hummed in his palm, like he was holding a living thing that was only half there. Still.

“The Darksaber is a Mandalorian weapon.” It belonged with a Mandalorian. Even if he wasn't entirely sure what that meant, anymore, or if he himself still qualified and he sure as shit didn't want to advertise that he had it.

“I don't want it!” The Jedi huffed, cheeks flushing. “I just thought. It's you, me, and Grogu for the next three weeks and we might as well make use of it. You don't have to have the Force to _not_ chop off your own hand. Or foot.”

The Jedi flapped his mechanical hand at him.

There was that, that not-sadness back. It curled in his chest and clawed at his cheeks. He'd only ever trained with other Mandalorians. Din looked back down at the cocoa as the Jedi hid behind his overly large mug and left the kitchen, the rustle of his robes similar to the flutter of bird wings. Soft.

Alone, Din tipped his helmet back and raised the mug to his face.

The hot chocolate tasted almost, but not quite, like what his own father once made.

Din looked at the spice cupboard, still open from when the Jedi had retrieved the sweetener. It was well stocked, likely to account for the many species and their tastes that lived at the Temple. Din took another drink and put the now empty pot back on the heating plate. He filled it with fresh bantha milk and selected his spices.

**Author's Note:**

> *How Luke Trolls His Students (And Maybe Drives A Certain Nephew To The Darkside)  
> Senior Padawan: Master Luke, sir! Have you see the quarter inch hydrospanner? We're trying to get into the old landcrawler and it is the only one that fits the bolts.  
> Luke, strokes his chin and pretends to look wise: Use the Force.  
> Senior Padawan: We've tried!  
> Luke, affecting a certain accent: Do or do not!  
> Senior Padawan: !@$*(!


End file.
